An Optical Maze called Paris
by wordweb
Summary: They're not aware of conventions, and they're not afraid of making instinctive decisions. They're just sophomores meandering through the large, luminous capital - one gently being led by the other. Christophe/Kenny


A one-shot started after my exams ended the other week (at last!). I started writing this after listening to 'Alexandre Kinn' on his Myspace music channel. Have a listen if you can - his acoustics go well with his voice! Christophe/Kenny continues to dominate my SP fandom. Haha.

Disclaimer: South Park and all it's characters are owned rightfully by Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

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**An Optical Maze called Paris**

They go to Paris for a class excursion in college during the autumn, and it's the first time he's ever been out of the states. Naturally, he finds the experience daunting at first.

He finds himself staring at hundreds of renaissance buildings; nothing like the prudish, deteriorating buildings he'd seen in monochrome photos of Europe in those documentaries that he'd studied for his college assignment back in the states, but _real_ European architecture – cleanly-cut rims that decorated many of the towering terraced houses, illuminated by the mass antique fountains spread across the city. There's that distinct aroma of freshly baked bread stemming from many of the local bakeries (Or 'pâtisseries' as their tour guide had corrected them) that they'd briefly passed during their wander through the stone paved streets; the immensity of attractions such as the Luxembourg Gardens, the Place Vendome and the ever-popular Notre Dame (which he afterwards thought, wasn't as extravagant as he'd expected it to be), and of course, there was "L'Île de France".

Because no one visits Paris without going to the Eiffel Tower.

Kenny is standing towards the bottom at the Champ de Mars, daunted by the sheer enormity of the monument. Damn, he didn't realize the thing would be pretty damn big physically. He's fiddling with the string of his parka unconsciously, twirling it around his index finger, head tilted upwards and eyes staring incredulously in awe, whilst his Nikkon camera hangs loosely around his neck. He doesn't feel the slight scuffling behind him, doesn't hear the small chuckle until he feels a ghostly breath whisper against his ear –

"Too big for your camera to handle, iz zat it?"

He jumps, his hand immediately grabbing his warmed ear in a protective urge. Snapping his head back, he proceeds to glare pointedly at the culprit.

"Jesus, could you at least _try_ not being an asshole while we're here?"

He watches as Christophe merely smirks, and walks towards him, bare hands defensively held. He's not wearing his normal mercenary gear, and instead sports a simple beige leather jacket coupled with some navy jeans. He appears to be in lighter spirits as well, Kenny notes.

'_Probably since he's back in his home town,_' he speculates inwardly.

"It is not my fault zat you're too busy ogling at ze most futile of things in Paris," Christophe snorts, gesturing mildly towards the tower behind him, "This thing has been here since ze late eighteen hundreds, it has been here for awhile, in case you haven't noticed. It iz not anything new to these parts."

"I know, I know. The thing's been featured in practically every epic romance flick ever made. It's just that…" he feels his voice trailing off, his eyes straying back towards the gigantic structure. "…I didn't realize it'd be _this_ big up-close."

"I sense that we are getting a little over sentimental, aren't we?"

"Shut up. Besides, we're meant to be sticking with the group." Kenny states blandly, nudging his head towards the large mob of sophomores lagging ahead of them, stuck in the grand queue amongst excitable, murmuring tourists. It's not that he wants to be stuck in the traffic of people leading up to the tower, but it's at least better traveling in a larger group to avoid getting misplaced amongst the swarms of foreign vacationers. Better to be amongst his own kind than be the lost little American traveler stuck within the many arrondisements of the French capital.

Christophe snorts. "Those institutionalized infidels wouldn't know a thing about ze 'real' face of Paris – let alone any fraction of France."

"So you're saying that _you're_ willing to show me that side of this country?"

And that's when the blonde feels his wrist roughly being seized, yanked forwards, and lead out of the perpetually stagnant line of tourists. He feels lost, almost claustrophobic amongst all the differently sized people, the many foreign faces, and the many strings of foreign dialogue which he hears from all around him. He's lost in a large maze, he thinks, a maze of a vast array of people that he can't identify, classify, or even stereotype properly, because it's _him_ that's awkward and out of place – a blonde American sophomore with a fat orange parka to protect him from the cold autumn weather in Europe that he can't seem to cope with.

He's glad when he's finally out of the line, and he's still able to feel Christophe's firm grip holding his hand, a grip that he recalls is as firm as how he holds his trusty shovel. They stare at each other for a moment, allowing a cool breeze to brush past them before Kenny decides to speak up with the first question that springs to mind.

"Are you sure we won't get in trouble for this?" he asks.

"I doubt it," the brunette replies coolly, "the group has at least thirty other people, not to mention that our tour guide doesn't know us by name or face. They won't realize zat we 'ave left. We'll just make sure to return to ze hotel by night fall."

Kenny stares at him with initial uncertainty, but eventually complies when he realizes that they've probably gone too far away from the line to keep up with the group at any rate. So they decide to leave it at that, and instead take a detour towards a café Christophe claims to know well. The two of them hail a taxi, and head across the river towards the Montaigne Avenue.

*******

"…I feel sort of awkward, Chris." Kenny says faintly.

"You're being delusional. Now eat your parfait before I help myself to it." The French man directly replies.

"If you say so," Kenny hears himself sigh mutedly, just as he rations another small portion out of the luscious desert laid out in front of him with his spoon. They're at the 'Ladureé Cafe', a high-class tea salon tucked away in the heart of the city, besides the bustling main streets of Paris. It's a high class parlor, he realizes, noting the antique décor, the gold-framed ceiling and windows, as well as the fine china used to serve meals. He's not use to the vintage and swank, and he finds himself completely exposed in his slack orange parka, amongst all the high-class professionals dining in Ladureé.

He glances up towards Christophe, who's busying himself with a copy of the 'Le Monde' newspaper, reaching out to take occasional sips of coffee from his cup. He's completely in sync with the posh ambiance, Kenny thinks, a stoic expression fixated on his face, legs crossed in a casual but classy manner under the table, and his attention completely focused the article he's reading, paying no interest to the many professionally suited business men surrounding them in the parlor, who occasionally cast the quick, prying glances towards their table. He's almost jealous of the mercenary's calm demeanor.

Kenny exhales softly, and tries to focus his attention back towards his chocolate parfait, taking small nibbles using his minute silver serving spoon. He finds that it tastes _really_ good compared to the stuff he normally has, although the appetizing taste isn't quite enough to block out his discomfort.

"If it iz ze bill you are worried about, do not worry. I'll be paying for it," he hears Christophe mutter from behind his newspaper. "So relax, and take your time."

"You can actually afford this stuff?"

"I use to work 'ere part time as a waiter, I may likely get some sort of discount." He hears the crisp flip of another newspaper page, "and even if that is not the case, the credit card I 'ave will likely supplement for this meal."

"Well. It's not that I'm worried about the cost," he takes a quick glimpse around before replying discretely, "but I'm sort of weirded out by the way people are casting strange looks at me."

"They're looking at you simply because you're looking at zem. So stop peering around the room and focus on ze meal in front of you instead."

'_Easy for _you_ to say_.'

But then he hears the nonchalant clinging of the entry bells, and swivels his head to find himself staring at a long-legged, slender blonde that's just entered the café. She's wearing a large black bonnet, fashioning a long velvet skirt cut just below the knees, a complimenting long-sleeved top to boot. It's chic, it's classy, and it's practically gleaming in stylish designer labels. '_Enticing,'_ he thinks. He finds his eyes straying towards her upper body, and _damn_, he notes mentally, those are some fine –

"Kenny."

He blinks, breaking his absorbed stare, and whips his head back towards the brunette. Christophe's glaring at him with that irritated frown of his, newspaper folded on the side of the table and arms crossed agitatedly. He's trying to ignore the raised eyebrows from surrounding tables, and if he had brought his shovel with him, the blonde probably would have been in a concussion right now. He never liked it whenever he'd catch him ogling at chicks – or at least checking out cleavage.

Kenny grins sheepishly, smiling in a completely apologetic manner.

"…sorry about that."

He continues his meal quietly, and it only takes a matter of minutes before he successfully finishes his parfait. _So,_ the blonde muses wryly to himself as he watches Christophe swiftly call for the bill, _there _are_ some sights that you can only see in Paris_.

******

They wonder around the outskirts of Paris for awhile, and he finds that it's nice being able to soak in the brisk autumn air without the haste and bustle of their large tour group. The two males spend time meandering around the outskirts of town, and take their time indulging in the local markets, stopping occasionally in front of small stalls to sample the fresh fruit or for Christophe to engage in small idle chatter with old shop keepers (all in French, of course). Kenny's sort of amused to find Christophe acting socially with other people for once besides him, and he's sort of relieved. He's relieved that there's this honest side to Christophe that only he's been given the privilege to see.

After their walk, Christophe hails another yellow cab, and takes them to their next destination. When they get there, it takes awhile to shove pass the hordes of tourists present on both the exterior and interior of the building's main entrance, but it's all worth it.

The Grand Louvre is as gigantic as he's imagined – even grander than the pictures he's seen. He's lost within all the exhibition rooms, each as extravagant as the last. It's like strolling through a chronic kaleidoscope, each room reminiscent of a different time era, each room canvassed with themed tones and colors evocative of a specific art period. He's almost dizzy from having to absorb so much art in a condensed span of three hours, because it is literally all the two have time for. He's thankful for at least having Christophe to explain things briefly to him in a completely comprehendible style ("_Ze reason why most of these statues are nude is likely because they considered the blatant size of zer dicks to be a great indicator of social status_," he remembers Christophe mentioning off-handedly once during their tour), compared to what the museum guides had to offer.

After meandering around the long stone archways stretching miles on end, and the many exhibition rooms filled with immensely sized oil-canvases, he finds himself resting on a nearby bench, somewhat dazed, slouched from exhaustion. He's waiting for Christophe to return with some coffee (that he'd kindly offered him for free, of course), and slowly begins swinging his sore legs slightly to keep them from numbing.

He glances down, and tries to shove his head deeper into his parka to block out the many murmurs of the mobs of tourists around him – as well as the many scuffles of trainers and sandals that echo throughout the foyer. '_Shutup,_' he wants to yell out loud, '_and quit making my head pound so much you bastards, just take a damned pamphlet if you're so lost or don't know what to frickin' see next,_' he squints his eyes shut when a bright camera flash blinds him momentarily, '_and take your stupid cameras with you too._'

He's suddenly longing for someone to come and lead him away from the noise and hassle; someone to help him up from his seat (because his feet are far too tired to even stand), and lead him towards somewhere quieter, where the noise won't rattle his head so much, and where he won't have to unconsciously listen to the loud tourist complaints at the information desk just opposite him. He begins rubbing his hands heavily against his face, trying to ease the stress. '_God,_' he groans mentally.

"Sorry for ze wait, it took me awhile to find ze nearest café."

He glances up, and can only grin in gladness to find a returned Christophe holding out two warm polystyrene cups with what definitely smells like coffee in front of him. He accepts one, and gently begins sipping the drink, watching as his friend casually takes a seat besides him.

"You looked stress, are you feeling alright?"

"Nah, don't worry," he hears himself dismiss calmly, "I'm just not use to these large packs of tourists, that's all."

"I'd offer you a smoke," Christophe pauses to smirk, "but we are obviously not allowed to smoke in here."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm pretty sure I'll manage." He takes another swig of his coffee, savoring the hot, thick feel of steaming caffeine running down his stiff throat. "We've only got a few more hours to go before we have to head back to the hotel, right?"

They've been wandering around the Louvre for at least four hours, and although it's helped Kenny a lot with his art portfolio, it's definitely limited the amount of sight seeing he could have done elsewhere in the city. He's sort of disappointed in a way, because he would have at least wanted to seen a little bit more of Paris before heading back.

"Indeed," Christophe begins, setting his cup down besides him. "Although zer is one last thing I want to show you before we return."

"There is?"

"Yes, so hurry up and finish your damn drink so we get out of 'ere."

Kenny smiles responsively, and manages to deplete the contents of his cup with another few more mouthfuls. He discards the cup in a nearby dust bin, before he feels his hands seized once again and yanked towards another direction. He's being quietly led out of the museum by Christophe, who knows the place well enough to navigate himself back towards the main entrance and back onto the main streets. '_He's probably been here a couple of times,_' Kenny considers within his mind.

But he's glad to have _his_ hands there to lead him around Paris once again, he admits.

******

They're sitting in a yellow Paris cab, and Kenny's watching the lights flicker by swiftly. It's already night fall, and they need to get back to the hotel for their scheduled group dinner – or at least back in time to catch enough sleep for their flight back to the states tomorrow. He can feel that his body is sort of heavy, drained from all the walking and talking they've done all day, but he's sort of thankful for it too. It's a re-assuring sign telling him that he's at least done all he's can within one day in Paris.

They're sitting in the back seat of the cab, the seatbelt strapped securely against him, and his elbow rested gently against the arm rest on the side. He's watching the glimmer of passing car headlights, and the many brightly-lit monuments and buildings they pass by. He wonders how much the city's electricity bill must amount for. But he's pretty sure it's made up for by the large amount of profits earned by the masses of tourists the city manages to attract.

"Say, Christophe," he asks slowly, his eyes not hitching from their rooted gaze outside the window.

"Oui," is the equally mute response from the seat next to him.

"Why did you move to the states anyway? You seem happier and homier here, so why take the trouble to move somewhere as far as Central America?"

He turns his head to hear his friend's response, meeting his friend's eyes in a detached gaze. He waits for what seems like a long, quiet minute, before Christophe responds with a low chuckle.

"It wasn't my decision. In fact, it 'appened to be my father's."

"Your dad?"

"Yes," he replies, leaning his head back on the seat. "He claimed zat he wanted us to lead a better life in ze states. Thus he sent us packing, giving us a sufficient amount of money and a small unit in Colorado. Although that didn't turn out as well in ze end, especially after he abandoned us by running off with another French woman."

Kenny drops his gaze slightly, a little regretful for springing the intrusive question. "I see, sorry for bringing it up."

"Don't bother with ze unnecessary apologies," he hears the brunette say lightly. "I got over ze awkwardness of zis subject soon after I realized zat my father was never coming back. It's just cold facts. Facts zat I don't mind accepting."

Kenny's opening his mouth to ask another question, but shuts it after he feels the car pull over to the side of the road and slow to a gradual stop, the taxi driver dipping his head back with his hand extended out.

"Nous avons arrivé. Vingt et un euros, s'il vous plait."

Chirstophe retrieves his wallet casually, and pulls out a crisp set of bills. He nods towards the driver, and then turns to Kenny.

"We're here."

They leave the cab, and Kenny blinks when he realizes where they are. They're back in the Champ de Mars, although the place is significantly less crowded, and the street lights have been lit around the park. The evening wind gusts past them, just as Christophe extends his hand forward.

"We'll walk up to the Eiffel Tower from 'ere, it should be less crowded by now."

******

They take a lift up, and reach the top of the tower within a matter of minutes. Kenny's still being lead by Christophe, who takes him across the top floor towards a look out point overlooking the north side of the city. They lean against the railing, elbows nudging against each other, but only subtly. Staring ahead at a vast sea of lights that stretches from miles on end, Christophe takes out his packet of Marlboros, pulls a small cigarette out, and lights it. He begins smoking casually, occasionally letting out cold gray breathily exhales.

Kenny's not a romantic, but he secretly admits that this is definitely a nice set up the French man has planned.

"I didn't regret moving, you know."

Kenny turns back to Christophe, who's still staring out towards the city, cigarette loosely held in between his fingers.

"Really?"

"Yes. The Marseilles would have probably been a miserable place to live anyway," he then turns his head back slightly, a slow, half-lidded smile inching its way across the mercenary's face. "And I probably wouldn't have been able to meet you as quickly."

And it's as simple as that. Kenny laughs out loud, and shakes his head at the corniness of that last line the brunette had uttered. He can feel the stupid grin that's stuck on his face, because he can't help it. He leans in towards the mercenary, and bumps their foreheads lightly against each other.

"That's funny," he starts with a chuckle, "because I was about to say the same thing about coming here, despite all the annoying tourists and god-forsaken formalities you guys have here." He smiles softly. "I'd go through all that, just to meet a god-forsaken bastard like you."

And he feels his head rustled lightly before a warm, gentle kiss is planted on his forehead. He can feel the cheshire cat grin again, even though he can feel the light stares from an elderly couple behind him.

So they walk slowly for another ten minutes through the park, hands held loosely and shoulders gently aligned with each other. Kenny ignores the occasional stares from by passers, because for gods sake, he doesn't care anymore. He doesn't care about social expectations, doesn't care about the awkwardness of it all, and would gladly die at the particular moment, wholly content.

As long as he was still holding Christophe's hand at the end of it all, he'd put up with anything.

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Reviews for this second post would be awesome!


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